


Conquest

by Cirilla9



Category: Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron (2002)
Genre: Blackmail, Captivity, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Morality, Historical Inaccuracy, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Racism, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, villain's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 06:50:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15903081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirilla9/pseuds/Cirilla9
Summary: What may have happened if the Colonel decided to break his Lakota captive first...





	Conquest

**Author's Note:**

> Don't read this, it will spoil this beautiful fairy tale about Spirit.
> 
> Still here? Then read the tags carefully. Leave, if they're potentially triggering for you.

„Not as high as Cheyenne, features more sharp than those of a Crow. Lakota,” judged colonel in a sure tone of an expert, looking straight into the hateful gaze of the captured Indian. The wildling kept trashing into the firm grip of colonel’s men, uncaring of the futility of any resistance in a closed fort. “Tie him to a pole.”

  
Once tied up and freed of soldiers’ restrictive hold the savage calmed down a bit; he didn’t pull at the ropes as the mustang did, he sat cross legged with his back held straight against the pole and observed the camp with a sharp eye. Colonel knew such inactiveness was often deceiving and observed him in turn.

  
The captive was young but not a boy anymore, his face bore no wrinkles, yet his muscles betrayed a seasoned warrior. He must have taken not one scalp already.

  
He was handsome too, the little misleading voice supplied. Long black hair surrounded a thin face, chin narrowed down into a triangle, dark eyes looked from under the long lashes with some amount of primitive intelligence and a good deal of audacity.

  
Though overall his face was similar to hundreds more of Indians of his tribe whom colonel had met during the time of his stationing in this God forsaken place of the untamed West. As every Indian he walked practically half-naked too. Where soldiers had every bit of skin covered by white shirt and uniform from the morning drill to the night watch, Indian wore absolutely nothing. Golden skin, without a shade of chest hair typical for whites, reflected sunrays not obscured even by necklaces from beads the savages were so fond of or any of their childish war drawings. His breast was perfectly smooth, flat belly adorned by well-defined abs, concealed lower by the edge of soft leather pants, stretching temptingly onto his legs and buttocks, promising just as fine shapes as the rest of his body was made up from.

  
He didn’t seem dirty as well, despite the fact colonel’s men nearly rubbed him into the dirt, dragging him to a pole. There was an uncanny resemblance between him and the captured earlier mustang, the resemblance that stretched further onto the Indian tribes and horses’ herds. They lived in the wild, far from any civilization, far from comforts and hygiene modern world offered – not to mention soap, they rarely had hot water – and yet they were always clean. As if dirt did not cling to them at all (which, unfortunately, couldn’t be said about his own men, especially after they came back from a brothel they visited during a pass).

  
Colonel walked closer to take a better look at this bronzed by sun skin, swarthy, darker and yet perhaps cleaner than any of his men under their uniforms. He was beckoned by the sight of tense muscles, broad shoulders, impressive pectorals. Exposed flanks enticed him, waist narrowing to the place obscured by the breeches as if for his further temptation lured him to impure thoughts.

  
He reached out with his hand to grasp that chin as if shaped to fit into the open of his palm, to once more look into those eyes burning with the fire he wished to subdue but not extinguish – and in the next moment he felt sharp teeth digging into his hand. Colonel bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from screaming when the savage pierced his skin till it bled. He jerked his hand away before the bound man had a chance to damage some nerves and with the other he took off his revolver. He hit the captive with the butt in the face, and then again when after the first stroke he still glared too rebelliously despite the angry mark appearing on his cheek already.

  
From all around his men run already, seeing a commotion. With one gesture he stopped a few gun barrels targeted on aim.

  
“A week without food, water once every three days” he said coolly through clenched teeth, breathing through his nose as he wrapped his hand in a handkerchief drawn from his breast pocket. “We need to break his mettle”

 

***

 

“Something on your mind?” he asked his corporal as the boy looked at him intently, wonder written all over his face. It was always so clearly visible on his face when he thought about something and he didn’t wore this expression often.

  
“I’m just wondering, sire, why bother with the hostile? Why just not shoot him on place?”

  
Colonel glanced at the Indian in question. He sat just as straight as on the day of his capture, his hard neck not bent in the slightest by two days of starvation.

  
Colonel sighted inwardly, wondering why he was required to work with such cretins. How was he supposed to civilize these lands with the help of bunch of such simpletons? But he was their leader nonetheless, his role was to be an example for them, to teach them the proper way, lead them to the shining future of United States.

  
So he answered in a composed manner, drawing from his deep reserves of patience. “He could be of an invaluable aid to us once we make him submit to our rightful rule of these lands. He could became our guide, knowing these areas far better than any of us. He could lead us to some of the rebelling villages perhaps. He could tell us where his tribe is going to attack next. And most of all, my dear boy, he will be a living example how anything that comes from this land, from corn and potato to a wild stallion or Lakota Indian can be made to serve our purposes. We will take over the West because of our technical and intellectual supremacy.”

  
The boy nodded his head, making a wise mien but the frown of his brows suggested he didn’t fully grasp the meaning of colonel’s educational speech.

  
It was all right, the commander of the fort reminded himself in thoughts, he was here for these boys, he would show them.

 

***

 

There was a darker part to it all too, one which he would never share with his subordinates, nor friends. A part tucked into the shadiest corner of his soul, stuffed in there, left there to die, yet still stubbornly lingering; an evil element raising its head whenever an occasion appeared.

  
On a day to day life he kept it in check with his steely will, with an iron discipline applied to his men and himself alike. Yet even he, a soldier, a commander dreaded these sinful cravings. There were very few moments he let them peek out of the closed box of prohibition for the fear once let go fully they would roar free and take complete control over him.

  
The thing was he was going to enjoy breaking the Indian boy like he enjoyed taming a wild stallion, like he enjoyed giving orders, only more so for while torturing the native, he could indulge his most hidden desires. For the savage was a young man, handsome man, fully at his mercy; left in his hands, figuratively and literally, to turn him into a useful servant.

 

***

 

  
One week later they stood around the forlorn Lakota, blazing sun hung high in the sky.

  
“Let’s see how you’ve crumbled,” colonel said.

  
In this heat, deprived of water and food everything must blur before the Indian’s eyes. He looked up from under the heavy eyelids at his pursuers. His gaze dropped to the dinner pail held by one of the soldiers and stayed there. Good, he was starving.

  
“Behave yourself and you’ll get some food, your fast will come to an end.” Colonel observed the Indian closely and noticed, with content, how his eyes lit up at the mention of food. “I see you know English, that’s a decent start. Now I want you to tell me a few things. Something simple for the beginning: what is your name?”

  
The Indian tore his gaze away from the food and locked it at some invisible point in the distance.

  
Colonel clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

  
“Very good,” he said, crossing his arms. “If you don’t want to cooperate, we’ll leave you here for another week.”

  
He motioned the man holding the canteen away, then stopped the one who was drawing water from horse through, took the ladle from his hands and calmly spilled the liquid right before the Indian. With satisfaction he noted a little crack in the mask of indifference the wildling wore, as the pained expression crossed his dark face.

  
He could order him whipped. Yet the colonel had better, subtler means and he didn’t want to mar this beautiful skin. Besides, patience was what worked best with all the wild beasts from the prairie, including native Indians.

 

***

 

  
He’s stubborn, thought colonel, smoking a cigar on the shady veranda and watching the languid in heat silhouette of the wildling. A nigger would yield by now. Perhaps that was the reason why redskins weren’t slaves and hands for labor needed to be imported from distant lands of Africa and Asia. For natives from America the only choice was freedom or death. It even impressed the colonel slightly, though stronger was the thrill he felt at the challenge set before him to do what so rarely was achieved: to tame an Indian.

  
He was not the one to give up. They would both bent their proud necks under his capable hands, both Lakota and the stallion, they would bow before the power of a white man.

  
A dare was always tempting, especially in such an alluring form. The wildling looked better in a fight, alive and kicking than drained by lack of nutrition but back then he would not let himself be touched. Now colonel was able to walk closer and touch the boyishly smooth cheek, the hot skin, the darting cheekbones.

  
He gave him water himself that day and was pleased when the wildling did not bite him when he wiped the remaining wetness from his chapped from sun lips.

  
“I saw how you look at our mustang,” colonel started conversationally and the Indian looked up at him, his eyes having regained some clarity after the portion of water. “You care for him, don't you? You'll be unhappy if something were to happen to him, hmm?”

  
Speaking, he sauntered toward the horse riding square, exchanging the tin cup in his hand for a whip hung nearly on the fence.

  
“Leave him alone,” the words were so quiet he would not caught them if he wasn't waiting to hear them. He was glad he wasn't mistaken and his little spectacle worked. He would go further with it but he preferred to not scar any of his possessions. Forced to choose he would chose the redskin for mustangs were easier to catch and discipline than Indians but he much preferred to end up with both creatures tamed than forsaking one to break the other.

  
He stopped, turning a bit toward Lakota, but not a whole circle so the Indian would see his seeming hesitation but not his face. They were surprisingly good at reading expressions.

  
“Leave him,” said the captive firmer.

  
“I might...if you'd offer me something in return.”

  
“I will not say you my name nor show you the way to my village,” Lakota’s voice came out cracked now, pained but firmly determined to do what needed to be done, to stay loyal to his people even though it may cause harm to the creature he befriended.

  
“That’s all right. I understand some tribal superstitions may hold you from betraying me your name and giving me a power over you by doing so or some similar delusions. I couldn’t probably pronounce it anyway. So we’ll start with something that shall be easier for you. A show of submission, perfectly physical. You don’t have to say a word, anything… for now. Then and only then I will promise to not touch the mustang with the whip. So how it will be?”

  
The stallion observed them from behind the wooden railing with watchful eyes though his attention seemed limited to colonel’s hand and the nearby whip.

  
The Indian chewed at his lip. “Fine,” he said finally bowing his head minutely, “you will have my submission for the welfare of this wild spirit.”

  
“And you have my word,” colonel drew back from the fence and louder he called, “brigade, fall in!”

  
Hastened footsteps filled the fort as soldiers gathered on his command.

  
“You,” colonel gestured at one of his men, “untie him. And you, bring him some food.”

  
The wildling wolfed down the offered meal and in the meantime colonel unbuttoned the top of his shirt unhurriedly, took off his hat and jacket.

  
“Tie him to a horse stand over there, bent over,” he instructed and his men fulfilled the command, tearing the native from licking off every crumb from the bowl he got.

  
The Indian didn’t struggle as on his first day in the fort, perhaps too weakened to put up any resistance or maybe keeping his end of the deal. Colonel hoped for the latter. It was the act that would happen in a moment that was supposed to break him.

  
“You will witness the triumph of the white man," he addressed his men, pacing in front of them. “Before your very eyes you will see how even someone as savage as Lakota yields before the supremacy of our conquering nation. Through discipline, patience, ruthlessness we can break the wild inhabitants of these lands, we can bent everything to our will.”

  
His men listened, stood straight, head high, eyes shining with pride.

  
“Let this be the forecast of ultimate victory in the future and the noble quest of conquering the West completed one day. White men ruling these lands, blacks and redskins working for us to further our glory, to help us build the better modern world together."

  
“See this rebellious Lakota surrender.”

  
He reached to the prone tanned back, swiped his hand through the flank he devoured with eyes only till now. Muscles tensed, goosebumps appeared on the skin where he traced it. Then he hooked a finger over the waist of the soft leather pants and pulled them down until the ass of the Indian was exposed for everyone present, that is the whole crew of the fort.

Just as perfect as he imagined, nearly the same skin shade like the rest of his body as if the wildling run naked in the prairie under the sun.

  
The captive jerked, craned his neck trying to look at him over his shoulder and through the mane of his black hair colonel could clearly see confusion on his face. So it would seem even Lakota showed emotions in extreme situations. Perhaps he had thought he would be whipped, beaten, caned with a rod. What awaited him was much more humiliating.

  
This was the time to indulge his forbidden desires, to use ways prohibited on the Old Continent, to allow himself to dwell into the dark urges partly responsible for sending him here, at the end of the civilized world.

  
The outpost was raised in a godforsaken place but because of this it had the merit of being located far from the watchful eyes of his superiors. As long as colonel unleashed his impulses only against wildlings, the subhumans, slightly above animals level but not quite people, something along a black mistress; as long as colonel ruled over his people with a firm hand nobody complained (sans the said wildlings but their opinion was invalid) and it wasn’t going to get him fired or degraded.

  
He unbuckled his heavy belt, feeling the restricting material of army trousers tightening by the moment in his crotch. For the first time since the capture he thought he saw fear in Lakota’s stare as the Indian eyed his freed erect cock.

  
Then he approved the tied man, grabbed those sharp jutting hipbones and moved his loins closer until his manhood was pressed snug in the cleft of his ass. He could feel the wildling tremble slightly as he used his thumbs to part the bronzed cheeks further, before pushing in with all determination showed while taming a wild horse.

  
The Indian screamed in a voice of a wounded animal, it pierced the air as an eagle cry.

  
His men from standing almost upright broke into jeers and catcalls.

  
And he pushed steadily further in, through the echoes of the scream, through the laughs of soldiers hungry for a woman in this desolate place. He didn’t pause, inch by inch pursuing his goal with stubbornness and ruthlessness he applied in every aspect of his life.

  
When he bottomed out he leaned over the shaking, sweated back. “Now keep still,” he whispered into the black thick strands of hair where it fell over the ear, sensing the hotness of the captive’s skin, “you promised me obedience.”

  
His prisoner did not try to jerk free but wailed anew when he pulled out then shoved forward trying to wedge himself even deeper into the resisting passage.

  
His breathe came out laborious as the dry slide of skin on his most sensitive part of flesh wasn’t exactly a comfortable feeling. Yet he gritted his teeth and kept going for maybe if it hurt it wasn’t that much of a sin, maybe depurative pain served as some kind of a penance. Besides, he was doing it for the purpose other than merely satisfying his sick yearnings, he was breaking the resistance in a Lakota.

  
The Indian sobbed pitifully underneath him with each cruel shove. His back strained with pain; bent over in a vulnerable position, held down by colonel’s firm hands, tied with ropes he could hardly do as much as twist his hips as colonel drew into him mercilessly.

  
Careless of the spasms of abused flesh colonel plunged into it over and over, watching himself disappear then sliding back out of the red skinned ass.

  
Things got easier as the savage tore and begun to bleed and colonel could feel himself sliding more easily in and out. The blood trickling down Lakota’s inner thigh was even redder than the rest of him.

  
Colonel grabbed the two parts of black hair that were tied in loose tails and used them as equivalent of reins while riding out his lust, pounding into the slim, shaking body of his captive. He picked up his pace to something more satisfying but not too fast in order to not spent himself too quickly. Patience, time worked in everything. It was best to drew it out for as long as possible so the Indian would remember properly.

  
Sobs of the wildling turned into pained whimpers as he was gradually wearing out by physical pain, starvation and fear. Noises weren't conscious protests but whines forced out of him with every piercing stab of colonel’s cock.

  
When colonel felt himself nearing to an end he deliberately slowed, then paused his hips' movements to let things last. He breathed slowly to diminish his heartrate. He noticed Indian’s legs were unrestricted with any rope, only tangled leather trousers limited their movements, and though now they were shaking with effort to held the weight of the maltreated body, at the start the Indian was surely able to kick with them yet he stayed put. So the wildling could honor his end of the deal.

  
When his arousal dropped down to controllable levels, he resumed his lazy thrusts. Indian’s flesh still clenched around him almost painfully tight. He twisted one hand firmer in the black mane of captive’s hair, turned captive’s head to the side, not particularly caring for Indian’s comfort but wary to not break his neck. The point was to bend it to his will.

  
He saw fragment of a face screwed up in pain, brow frowned, eye clenched tightly shut and lashes wet with tears.

  
“Open your eyes,” he commanded quietly. Tightened the grip in Indian’s hair when the boy didn't listen, “look at me.”

  
The eye cracked open, red from crying, mirroring agony he was in, yet even more hate. That was all right, the Indian could despise him as long as he was following commands. Colonel smiled at him thinly and forced his loins forward again, savoring the way Indian’s face contorted into even more pained grimace, how the dark eye welled up with tears. The wildling tried to hold them back but it was futile as they spilled at colonel’s next rough thrust.

  
Colonel let go of his hair and the dark head hung down, not as proud now. His neck was finally bowed. Colonel fixed his stare at this sign of his victory and started fucking his prey faster, picking up his pace until his shoves were just shallow jabs deep inside the helpless native.

  
He grabbed narrow hipbones tightly as he felt his orgasm nearing. He came, marking the savage better than any brand could, with his own flesh, in the most primary way of showing a domination of one man over another. In a way understood between races, without words, that talked to basest instincts, that shall never be washed out from the Indian’s consciousness.

  
Only as the blood roaring in his ears quieted a bit, he heard cheers and ovations from his people as if they just witnessed him riding the untamed mustang for the first time, which, he supposed, wasn’t the worst comparison.

  
He withdrew his softening cock and the savage whimpered once more. There was mixed come and blood smeared on his buttocks.

 

***

  
Afterward they dropped him in a heap near the pole he was secured to earlier. The mustang perked his ears behind the fence.

  
After some time the horse approached and nuzzled the huddled figure of the Indian. Lakota didn’t react until the second, firmer nudge of horse’s nose. Then colonel saw redskin’s weary hand lifting to stroke the soft muzzle.

  
Colonel sat at his porch, sated and languid after taking the savage, smoked the cigar and observed both of his captives contemplatively. He didn’t believe in Indians’ superstitions of talking with animals but it looked almost as if the stallion was comforting the redskin.


End file.
